surrounded the rocky ridge on which the fortress stood. A cobbled road descended steeply from its forekeep gate down to a large open space, the dale's marketplace. Since the arrival of Longspear, a dark, gaunt double gibbet had arisen in the center of this space. The great open well, once freely used by all, had been covered, its locked pumps used for the Wolves and their horses only.
Angry murmurs rose from the crowd as the dalefolk came out into the marketplace and saw these hated reminders of unwanted rule. The murmurs became a roar as they saw what awaited beyond.
Where the cobbled road to the castle rose out of the beaten earth, a line of Wolves stood in full coat-of-plate battle armor gleaming silver and deep blue in the sun. Swords and daggers were at their sides, and in their hands they held the long black-shafted lances they were wont to use from horseback. They barred the way grimly, the lances coming down like a forest of leveled, waiting teeth as Irreph strode steadily toward them.
Cold eyes met angry ones. The crowd came to a slow, milling halt just beyond the sharp, steady-held lance points. The sun beat down on them all.
The leader of the Wolves with the lances was Kalam Bloodsword, a veteran of Zhentil Keep's armies. He looked coldly at the angry dalefolk and kept all fear from his flat, commanding voice.
'Mulmar, go back to your work at the mill or perish, in the name of Longspear, lord in this place. Go back now, and take these old men with you, or we shall slay you all before highsun.'
Silence was his answer. No one moved.
Kalam glared at them all, looking slowly from left to right, at old men with fire in their eyes, a young maid- Mulmar's brat? — and the man in chains, who looked back at the Wolf with death in his eyes.
Kalam cleared his throat. 'You'll all miss your meals, and your loved ones will wait for you in vain-forever. Think on this and go back to your homes.'
Still, no one moved. Kalam blazed a silent curse at this Mulmar for somehow getting free of the wizards' spells, and added another at the mages. For all their arrogance, wizards were flighty, careless fools one could never rely on save to send one speedily to the grave.
'Go now, all of you,' he said, keeping his voice level. 'Or we shall put Irreph Mulmar to the death, here and now. The stain of his blood will be on all of your hearts.'
'Stand with me,' Irreph said almost gently. 'Stand fast, folk of the dale.'
They stood. Long moments dragged past. Kalam made another silent curse, added a prayer to Tempus, and motioned his line of men forward.
They pushed forward to take Mulmar. Practiced old hands struck aside lance points and ducked under the long shafts. Mulmar raised his chains to his shoulder, ready to flail. The Wolves, trained not to let foes who might have knives get in under wielded polearms, halted and stepped back.
'Stand back!' Kalam roared. 'Any who bar our way will hang as outlaws! Back!'
He drew his sword and strode forward. Old men with eyes and faces like cold stone stepped into his path, weapons raised. Kalam whipped his blade back and forth like a man threshing grain. It clanged against old axes and short swords and pitchforks until sparks flew and the numbed hands of their wielders wavered. Some fell back.
Kalam, too, stepped back and glared across the small open space he'd created. 'Get back, and go to your homes!' he ordered sternly. 'I want no blood shed this day. What gain will you see, if you lie dead here in the marketplace before highsun?' He looked around at cold and silent faces. 'Go back!'
No one moved. Deliberately Kalam sheathed his sword, stepped back into the line, and took up a lance.
'Lances down!' he ordered, and the line of sharp points was leveled again. Glittering death took a step forward. And then another.
A stone fell by Kalam's feet as if from the empty sky. The leader of the Wolves glared at the mob angrily. 'Who threw that?'
Another stone sprang past his eyes and rattled down a shield behind him. Kalam Bloodsword aimed his lance in the direction from which the stone had come and charged forward with a yell. The line of Wolves followed.
The lance tore through a shoulder, forced a second man to leap aside, and stuck solidly into a wooden shield that was as gray with age as the bearded man who held it. The old man staggered under the impact but gathered his feet under him defiantly and set himself against Kalam's shoving.
Kalam snarled and gained a step. Then another. A man with red hair joined the graybeard, then, and the lance went no farther.
'Make way!' Kalam spat. The red-haired man met his eyes steadily and shoved… and it was the leader of the Wolves who was forced back. A low, murmuring roar of approval rose around him. For the first time since he'd come to this place between the mountains, Kalam was truly afraid.
Another stone came winging right toward him. He lowered his head hastily and the rock struck his helm a solid, ringing blow. Kalam snarled and jerked the lance up and down roughly, trying to tear it free.
Folk were moving now, looking over their shoulders and scattering to the right and left. Good! Reinforcements had arrived, no doubt, and not a moment too soon.
Pushing forward into view from the rear of the crowd were two men in worn, nondescript, bloodstained leathers whom he'd never seen before, with naked swords in their hands. An old man with an older war axe in his hands followed them, grinning from ear to ear. The first two men fixed eyes on the leader of the Wolves. As he met their gazes, Kalam's blood ran cold. They meant his death.
The leader of the Wolves let go the lance and snatched at his sword. He got it out in time to strike aside the first reaching blade, but the man danced past, moving with Kalam's parry, and struck at him from behind.
Kalam ducked and dodged, and grunted with the sudden pain brought by the second blade, running up under the edge of his breastplate. He reeled away, doubled up against the burning, stabbing pain, and found himself face- to-face with the graybearded veteran who'd stopped his lance. His blade swept up as he snarled, 'Death!'
'Aye,' came the calm reply. 'Yours.'
The short sword that stopped his own blade as if it had been driven against a stone wall leapt suddenly into his face, and Kalam of the Wolves had time for only a gurgle or two before he fell and was trampled in the general surge forward. The last, fading thing he heard was a voice far behind him yelling, 'Freedom for the dale! Death to the Zhent Wolves!'
Shoulder to shoulder, Heladar Longspear and Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak stood on the battlements, looking down as the mob below surged forward and the lancers were overwhelmed.
As their roar of victory rose and the ragged band surged triumphantly up the cobbled road, Longspear ordered curtly, 'Now. Break their charge.'
Guards around him hastened to the wall, loaded heavy crossbows in their hands. Their bolts fell like rain on the road below, and villagers fell back-or fell transfixed, to lie crumpled on the ground like crows slain around a guarded granary.
'And now?' Lord Longspear said, looking old. 'Those are my people we're killing.'
The mage who called himself Stormcloak turned cold eyes on Heladar. 'What of it?'
'I'd rather not rule an open graveyard,' Longspear replied coldly. 'Who knows where it'll end, now that the bloodletting's begun? There's not a one left we can trust, and if we slay them all, what do I rule then?'
'A strategic pass that we can hold with twice our strength in two days, by means of the gate,' Stormcloak told him. 'If it's rabble you want to rule over, are there no prisons in Zhentil Keep? Are there no outlaws in these mountains? Manshoon's orders will bring all he wants to let out or be rid of, and if we spread the word in Cormyr and Sembia that there are hill farms for the taking, we'll soon have the dale as crowded as you like, Lord Longspear.'
He turned away from Longspear and gave an order to the Overswords who stood behind them. 'I want twenty full-armored men-lances and blades, all of them-mounted and ready in the courtyard as fast you can get them there.'
The Overswords looked at him, and at the magnificently armored back of Lord Longspear. The back did not turn, and Stormcloak snarled, 'Move at my orders, you thickheaded orc-sons! When I signal, send them out. They're to ride down the mob at full gallop, slaying any who resist. Longspear, you lead them.'
The lord of the dale did not move or reply. The mage snarled and advanced on the Overswords, cursing them and raising threatening hands in gestures of spellcasting, until they wheeled and ran down the stairs. Men on the walls around them reloaded their crossbows and carefully looked away. Stormcloak gestured at Heladar's back.
